Misadventure
by Halcris
Summary: It began as a simple 'escort' trip, down to the Dorset coast. Then things changed unexpectedly.


**Misadventure**.

Stop !

The voice was stern and full of authority, and the three boys obeyed instinctively, applying their brakes and bringing their bicycles to a halt on the rough pathway.

The figure standing before them was formidable, but not intimidating. They knew him well. It was Sergeant Bob Perkins, their local village bobby, a man who had known them and their families all their lives.

"I'm sorry, lads," he said now, "But I'm afraid you can't go through this way for a few days."

It was the first day of the summer holidays, and the weather was warm and bright. The boys were on the excursion they had been planning for this day. They all had rucksacks on their backs, stuffed with the essentials, crisps, sandwiches, chocolate, and fruit juice, swimming trunks and a towel, sunglasses and suncream.

The path they were on led round the grounds of the Manor Hotel up on the hill. It was a short cut up over the hill, and down to the cove with its sandy beach at the foot of the cliffs where the big hotel stood.

The owner of the hotel had a long-standing agreement with the inhabitants of the nearby village. The path the boys were on was a handy shortcut. To go round by the road took quite a while. He was quite happy for people to use the short cut, provided they kept to the path which led round the perimeter of the extensive grounds, and also that they did nothing to inconvenience his guests.

Sergeant Perkins was explaining to the boys

"I'll only be for three days, lads," he said. "There's a special conference on up at the hotel. It's a group that are very security-minded, and they don't want anyone coming remotely near them."

"Have they just arrived in that big coach ?," asked one of the boys, looking past the sergeant up towards the large building, and the big very modern-looking vehicle standing in front of it.

"Yes, that's it," said the sergeant, "It's not been here long. They were over an hour late, having been held up by a traffic accident on the motorway, so they're in a bit of a flap, trying to make up time as, they've a busy schedule of lectures and films planned."

Bodie and Doyle had spent most of this dull Sunday on enquiries, and had just handed in their reports when they were summoned to the Cowley's office.

"Different job for you two this week," was his greeting. "You are on escort duty to a group going to a convention at a Manor Hotel on the Dorset coast."

""Nursemaids," muttered Bodie under his breath, earning him a fierce glare from his boss.

"What kind of group, sir ?," Doyle asked curiously.

"Rather an unusual one," replied Cowley, picking up a folder from his desk. "They study the history of native American Indians."

The listening pair looked surprised, as he went on.

"It is, of course, more popular in America, but apparently they have chapters, as they call them, all over the world. Each group studies a different tribe. Then, periodically, they meet to pool resources and information. It appears there are two chapters in Britain, one up in Durham, studying the Cree, and one in London, working on the Choctaw. They have arranged a convention here with speakers and films from the States."

"Very educational," commented Doyle, "but why our interest, sir ?."

"The Minister is concerned because a couple of his senior civil servants are in the group. They have told him they have been receiving abusive messages, _ not exactly threatening, but suggesting that as they are so interested in the Indian way of life, they should clear off to America, and try living it."

"I read an article," said Doyle, "about a militant group in America who think the Indians got a raw deal, and are campaigning to reclaim land they consider is their birthright."

Cowley was busy giving them their instructions.

"It's an early start," he said, "Six o'clock at Victoria Coach station. Murphy will pick you up and get you there. You'll travel down to Dorset with them and stay, keeping a general eye out for any attempt at disruption. So get off now and pack your bags for a few days stay."

The pair left and made their way down to their cars. Bodie was still having a grumble. He didn't like what he called 'nursemaid jobs'. "They'll all be dull and staid," he moaned pessimistically.

"Cheer up," said Doyle cheerfully, "They'll be quiet sensible people, and we might get some nice sea air and sunshine."

The trouble began half-way through their journey. The driver found himself on the end of a long horrendous tail-back. Apparently there had been a serious accident a long way ahead of them, with blocked lanes and the police controlling traffic as best they could.

They got through eventually, but were over an hour late when the coach finally rolled to a halt before the large Manor Hotel, perched high on the cliffs of the Dorset coast.

The hotel manager rose to the occasion extremely well. He drew all his staff from their customary duties and organised them to help with the task of getting his guests settled in quickly, and catching up some of the lost time.

Porters helped the coach driver unload the luggage, carrying the bags in and lining them up in neat lines in the spacious lounge. Waitresses checked names, and directed guests to their respective rooms, and waiters carried the bags upstairs. Bodie and Doyle helped with checking the lists, and finding the correct luggage for each guest.

Sergeant Perkins was talking to the boys. "So I'm afraid you'll have to go round the other way, lads," he said, "It won't take you long on your bikes though, will it ?.

Tim had already turned his bike, when he and the two others were startled by the loudest noise they had ever heard in their young lives. The two who were looking that way were astonished to see the front windows of the hotel erupt in a great burst of flame, showering debris out onto the gravel path and the lawns beyond.

Tim and the policeman swung round. "What happened ?," they exclaimed almost in unison.

"An explosion !," gasped Eric, the youngest. "A bomb, sir ?,"

The sergeant re-acted quickly. "Right, boys," he ordered, "Get back to the village as fast as you can. Go to the church hall. Dr. Miller has a clinic there today. Tell him there's been an accident up at the Manor, and he might be needed there."

The three boys took off at once, pedalling as fast as they could. And the sergeant, not built for speed, began a lumbering run back up the slope.

What would he find ?

Bodie, his eye to the main chance as always, had just carried up the bags of two young ladies sharing a room, hearing on the way that they were students from Cambridge, studying American History and Politics.

They had hardly stepped through the door of their designated room, when the explosion below shook the whole building !

Bodie dropped the bags on the nearest bed, and dashed out, heading for the stairs he had just climbed. He leapt down them rapidly, emerging into a scene of utter chaos.

Debris from damaged luggage and broken furniture littered the once-pristine lounge. One set of the heavy curtains by the windows was ablaze, but he could see that already a quick-thinking porter had grabbed hold of the compulsory red fire-extinguisher and was dealing with this very well.

A stunned-looking waiter was leaning against the wall clutching his arm. A couple more were just struggling to their feet. Two waitresses were sprawled amid the shattered bags. One was just beginning to stir. The manager was kneeling beside the other, pressing a padded handkerchief to a bleeding cut on her forehead.

But Bodie's eyes were searching for someone else. Doyle had been working down here, checking lists.

Where was he ?. There was no sign of him.

Then he saw bits of a broken chair being pushed aside, and a curly head came into view, as a fallen figure struggled to get up.

Bodie dashed across and extended a helping hand, pulling his mate to his feet, and steadying him as he swayed slightly.

"Are you all right ?," he said, as he released his hold.

"Yes," said Doyle, rubbing one shoulder, and flexing his arm to get the feeling back in it. "Hit the wall a bit hard, didn't I."

He began to pull out his radio-phone and was relieved to find it still seemed to be in working order. "You call the boss, Bodie," he suggested," and I'll do the local calls, ambulance, fire-brigade, police etc.

"I think the police have arrived," said Bodie, rather facetiously, as he spotted Sergeant Perkins hurrying in, looking anxiously at the scene before him. He hurried across to meet him, taking full charge as his authority warranted.

"We need to evacuate all the guests," he said briskly. "Round them up and get them to go out to the coach. Get the driver to do a roll call and get them to stay there."

The sergeant and several porters quickly undertook this task. The coach had been sufficiently clear of the windows to be undamaged, apart from a few bits of chipped paint from flying debris. The driver backed it up a bit to be on the safe side, and one by one the guests returned to it, and sat quietly as the driver ticked off their names on his passenger list. To their credit they all behaved very calmly, and before long the driver was able to report that all were accounted for and uninjured.

Meanwhile the manager, directed by Doyle, was evacuating as many of his staff as possible out through the back door into the gardens at the rear, and taking a roll call as he did so. The casualties, surprisingly few, seemed to be all among his staff, but fortunately nothing too serious.

The boys had done their job well, for it wasn't long before Dr. Miller's little Morris arrived on the scene. He hurried in with his bag and his first aid box, and got to work. Before long he had dealt with all the casualties, treating most with basic first aid for cuts and bruises, and told Doyle that only three would need to go to hospital, and he would deal with that.

Bodie had found a quiet corner and put in his call to Cowley. His boss was considerably astounded by the news, but with his usual efficiency took control, and began making plans.

Bodie confirmed that they were following correct procedure and evacuating everyone, and alerting the appropriate services.

"I'll get a bomb squad there by helicopter," said Cowley briskly. "Touch nothing till they've confirmed it's safe."

Doyle, assisted by the manager had contacted the local services, police and fire-brigade. It might take them a little while to get to the scene, as any place of any size was some distance away.

The first help to arrive was an ambulance, called by Dr. Miller from the local cottage hospital. They soon whisked away the three people needing help. None were serious cases. They were all treated in due course, and discharged, brought back by Dr. Miller, two to their homes in the village, and the third, who lived in, back to the hotel.

A police car was next to turn up. Bodie met the officers that emerged, and explained exactly what had happened. There was little they could do to assist, so helped by Sergeant Perkins, they took on the responsibility of keeping at bay the various sightseers that had come up from the village. Though to give them their due, most of them were not idle 'voyeurs' but had genuinely hurried to offer any help they could.

Cowley must have pulled a great many strings, probably aided by the Minister, concerned about his colleagues, for soon after the ambulance had disappeared, the distinctive throb of helicopter engines was heard, and not one, but two of them came into sight, setting down on the extensive lawns in front of the hotel.

The big one disgorged a group of men in camouflage gear, - the bomb squad, who shot into the hotel at a run to get on with their job. Starting with the site of the detonation, they meticulously searched, moving out from the nearest badly damaged bags, to the undamaged ones still there, and then on to all the ones that had been taken upstairs before the explosion. They checked each room carefully along the way. It took them quite a long time, but eventually they finished the task, and were able to report, 'all clear'.

Meanwhile Doyle, followed by Bodie had moved towards the smaller helicopter, as to their great surprise, they had recognised the two people descending from it, Cowley and the Minister himself.

The two agents hurried to explain what was going on. "We've evacuated everyone," Bodie began, "The visitors are in the coach, all accounted for and unharmed, and the hotel staff are in the back gardens.

"The three casualties," continued Doyle, "none of them serious, are on their way for treatment at the local hospital."

"Well done !," exclaimed the Minister.

Cowley, of course, didn't echo his praise. It wasn't his way. His men, as he had expected of them, had followed the correct procedure, and had done their job efficiently.

"The bomb," he said, "was in someone's luggage. Do we know yet whose it was ?."

"Not quite," replied Doyle, looking at his list. "We've eliminated all that went upstairs. They were already ticked off the list. As soon as we're allowed in, we can cross off all the undamaged ones in the lounge, and then those that are damaged but identifiable. That should bring it down to just a few. I'll report as soon as I have the names of those."

"Right," said Cowley. "You say all the visitors are on the coach. The Minister and I will go and have a word with them."

The two men moved away towards the coach.

Bodie and Doyle went back into the hotel and continued with their task of crossing names off their lists as each piece of luggage was given the 'all clear'. As they had said, most of the names were quickly eliminated. Finally the tally was reduced to just four, one of which had belonged to the civil servant, named as Mr. Fotheringham. The damage done by the bomb was such that it would need further checking to find out precisely which of the four bags it had been in.

The manager was now able to let all his staff back into the hotel. He quickly assessed the situation in the kitchen, and then hurried across to the coach.

A few minutes later, Cowley left the vehicle, and rejoined Bodie and Doyle. He explained what was happening.

"As the hotel is not now secure owing to the damage, the party will be returning to London as soon as the driver has refuelled his vehicle. However, the manager has said that as the kitchen and dining room are undamaged, given half an hour, his staff can supply a good semi-buffet meal."

"That's good." said the ever-hungry Bodie. His boss gave him a look. and went on. "The bomb squad are leaving now, and we'll get their full report later. The Minister is also going, taking his two colleagues back in the helicopter."

Where does that leave us, thought Doyle to himself, but his boss answered the un-spoken thought.

"My driver is on his way down with my car. He's bringing Murphy and Jax to take over the coach trip back, so you'll be with me. He'll be quite a while yet, so I think we are entitled to enjoy whatever meal is provided."

The manager and his staff, recovering fast from the shock of the morning's event, produced an exceptional meal for their guests, tasty home-made soup with country-style brown bread, and a considerable selection of hot and cold buffet items.

During the meal the fire-brigade turned up from the nearest town. There was no fire for them to tackle, but they did a very useful job, shoring up the shattered window-frames to make them safe, and producing and securing into place two large tarpaulins to make the gaping holes proof against the weather if it should turn wet. They then departed with the manager's thanks.

Since the Minister had departed, Cowley had been sitting with his agents at a small table in the corner. As they sat over their coffee, waiting now for the imminent arrival of Cowley's car, plus the two relief 'nursemaids', Cowley noticed that Doyle had become very thoughtful, continually looking at the guest list he still held. He was well aware of the intelligence of this particular agent. He had often come up with some very successful ideas.

"Something on your mind, Doyle ?," he asked.

"Well, yes, sir," admitted the curly-headed agent, "I'm finding it a bit of a puzzle."

"We've got time to listen," said his boss, "Take your time and explain."

"Well, it was a bomb, but it wasn't a very big one," Doyle began.

"Big enough, thank you !," exclaimed Bodie, "It nearly got you."

Both the other men glared at him for interrupting, and Doyle continued. "If it had been meant to damage the hotel or to harm a lot of people, it would have been bigger. I think it had a specific purpose, aimed at one person."

"If the coach had been on time, it would have been up in someone's room," said Bodie. This time his correct comment was accepted.

"Yes," agreed his partner, "but that doesn't make much sense either, for how could anyone guarantee that the intended victim would be anywhere near it, or even in their room at that time."

"Well, what's your take on it ?," demanded Bodie.

Doyle looked very thoughtful. "I think it was being brought in by somebody for a specific purpose, to be set up and detonated when he was ready. But it went off accidentally, prematurely."

His listeners were quiet for a moment, digesting this idea.

"That does make better sense, I agree," commented Cowley at last. "Show me that list of names again." Doyle handed it over.

"It wouldn't have been the civil servant, Fotheringham," he declared, "though he might have been the target. We need to take a closer look at the other three names. You pair get onto that as soon as we get back," he ordered briskly.

They got up from the table and made their way outside, just in time to see Cowley's big red car appear from behind the coach and come to a halt in front of them. Murphy and Jax, and Wilson, Cowley's regular driver, emerged and came towards them.

As they had had a long journey, Cowley allowed them quarter of an hour to have a rest and to grab a quick snack from what was left in the dining-room.

"Bodie," he ordered, "Show them where to go. Doyle, you come with me. I am going over to the coach. "

As they moved in that direction, they could see that the passengers, replete after their splendid lunch, were now re-boarding the coach. The driver and the hotel porters had already re-loaded all the available bags.

So all was ready to start the journey home, with quite a story to tell about their eventful morning.

"I'm just going to have a quick word," Cowley told Doyle, "I want you to have a surreptitious look round, see if you can link those three names to faces, and also whether any of them 'ring a bell'." Doyle nodded. He would try. Sometimes something stirred a memory from his days in the police.

Cowley spoke to several people, as Doyle looked around. They waited until Murphy and Jax came across to take charge of the trip back.

As they descended from the coach, and turned to watch it depart, Doyle had no success to report

"I picked them out," he said, "but there was nothing familiar about any of them. Sorry, sir."

"It was a bit of a long shot," said his boss. "Let's hope you find something in Records. We could do to find who was responsible quickly before he decides to try again."

They walked back towards the hotel, to meet Bodie coming out with Wilson. He was carrying his bag and Doyle's, and moved over to stow them in the capacious boot of the big car.

Cowley addressed his driver. "Are you all right for the trip back, Wilson, or would you like one of these two to take a turn?."

Wilson was deeply affronted, but tried not to let it show. He knew how this pair drove their own cars, and there was no way he was going to let them near his boss's car while he was about.

"Thank you, sir," he said stiffly, "That will not be necessary."

Cowley hid the suspicion of a smile as he settled himself in the front passenger seat. Of course, he should have known how his man would re-act.

Bodie opened the rear door and held it for Doyle. His mate seemed a bit slow climbing in, so without thinking he gave him a bit of a push.

The sudden yelp that Doyle emitted startled them all. Cowley swung round in his seat.

"Sorry, sir," said Bodie, "I forgot about his shoulder."

Doyle answered his boss's questioning look. "I was thrown off my feet by the blast," he explained, "I hit the wall pretty hard."

"Get it checked when we get back," ordered Cowley as they all settled into their seats, and Wilson put his vehicle into gear and moved smoothly away.

"No need to rush, Wilson," said Cowley, showing consideration for the steady reliable man who had been with him for years. "Find us somewhere for a coffee about half-way, can you ?."

The journey back, although quite long, was uneventful, and soon they were back in C.I. 5 Headquarters. Cowley went off to his office, to deal with all that had arrived on his desk during his absence.

Bodie and Doyle went off to start some research in Records. They had three names to work on. Fotheringham was unlikely to be the culprit, but they would look into his background later, as there might be something there that would give a motive for a personal attack on him.

"I don't think that very likely, though," said Doyle. "If someone wanted to get him, there would be much easier ways to do it."

They worked solidly for some while, and then retired to the rest room for a break. Bodie put the kettle on, and spooned coffee into a couple of mugs. Soon two steaming cups stood on the draining-board. Bodie carried his and a plate of biscuits he had found over to the table. Doyle moved past him and picked up his mug.

And promptly dropped it !

He jumped back with a muttered expletive, as the hot liquid splashed perilously near his legs.

Bodie swung round. "Clumsy," he exclaimed. But then he saw that Doyle was wringing the fingers of his right hand.

"What happened, mate ?," he asked anxiously

"My fingers went numb," replied his partner.

"Did you get that shoulder checked like Cowley said ?," demanded Bodie.

"I haven't had time," said Doyle, "It's just bruised."

"A bit more than that, I think," said Bodie "Get down there fast before the boss finds out."

Doyle shot out off the room quickly, and hurried down the stairs.

A short while later Cowley appeared in the doorway to find Bodie busy picking up broken pieces of the mug, and mopping up the copious mess on the floor.

"Doing some housework, Bodie ?," he said, with the hint of a smile.

"Slight accident, sir," replied Bodie.

"Where's Doyle ?," enquired Cowley.

"Seeing the doctor," replied Bodie, "about his shoulder."

"I see," said Cowley,

"We didn't find anything of interest in Records," reported Bodie, "so we'll have to take our enquiries out into the field." Cowley nodded.

"When Doyle gets back you can go 'off duty'," he said." It's been a long day. Start on that tomorrow."

He disappeared back to his office.

Having finished his clearing-up, Bodie sat down with his coffee to await his mate's return. Ten minutes later, Doyle came back. He was wearing a small supportive sling, and didn't look too pleased about it. He answered his partner's questioning look.

"It seems my shoulder is swollen as well as bruised," he reported crossly, "and it's pressing on some nerves. I've to wear this for a couple of days, and rest my arm till the swelling goes down."

"So I'm on chauffeur-duty again," said Bodie, pretending to be annoyed. "Come on, mate, I'll run you home. Is there any beer in your 'fridge ?."

"Scrounger," accused Doyle. But it had raised a smile and cheered him up a bit. The pair left, to saunter down the stairs and out to the car. It had been rather a hectic day, and a quiet evening in each other's company would be good.

Bodie rang his mate's doorbell bright and early next morning. It was answered promptly. Doyle already had his jacket on and his keys in his hand. He made to step out but was halted by Bodie's foot in the door.

"Where is it ?," demanded Bodie.

"Where's what ?," responded Doyle.

"Your sling," said Bodie.

"I don't need it," said Doyle, "It's much better," he added, gently flexing his fingers, but barely concealing the slight grimace of pain.

But his partner didn't move and continued to block his exit. "The doctor prescribed two days," said Bodie. "And as you well know, his report goes straight to Cowley. Do you want him on your back ?."

"How would he know ?," queried Doyle, crossly, "You going to tell him ?."

Bodie glared at him, affronted by the suggestion. "The Cow has eyes in the back of his head, I swear," he said. "He knows every move we make, mate."

"Yes, I believe he does," replied Doyle with a reluctant grin. Capitulating, he went back into his lounge, picked up the offending object and donned it.

"Come on," said Bodie, cheerfully. "It's an easy day today, after all, just some discreet enquiries about our three names.

The pair set off on their round of investigations. Their enquiries had to be very cautious and discreet. It would not do to alert any of the three that they were under suspicion.

The first name was Ian Fleetwood, and it was fairly easy to find out about him. He was forty-one years old, a lawyer working for a small very reputable firm that dealt mainly with corporate law. A bachelor, with a small flat in the better part of Battersea, his main hobby was sailing. He had a small racing yacht kept at Ryde in the Isle of Wight, and spent holidays and long weekends there, taking part in local races. His interest in Red Indian history was relatively recent. He'd joined the chapter one winter three years ago, and had attended regular meetings ever since.

"Sailing's an expensive hobby," commented Bodie.

"Yes," agreed Doyle, "but he's a bachelor with a good job, so no doubt he can afford it. I can't see anything suspicious about him, can you ?"

"Who's next ?," asked Bodie.

"A George Pritchard," replied Doyle, "But since this one has taken us nearly all day, I suggest we go back and write up the first one, and leave him till tomorrow."

"It's all right for you," complained Bodie. "You won't be able to type it, will you, until your fingers are better. I'll have to do it."

"I'll help you," said Doyle placatingly, "I'll tell you what to put down."

They returned to base and completed the first report. Then both spent a little time on the phone getting some basic details about the other two on their list.

Over the next few days they completed the dossiers on the remaining names.

George Pritchard was the retired director of a firm, started originally by his great-grandfather. It made small electrical components, plugs, switches etc. As it had filled a gap in the market, supplying companies making bigger equipment, the firm had grown and spread rapidly, bringing wealth to the succeeding family. It was now run by George's two sons.

George and wife were very active socially, she in the local W.I. and he in the Rotary Club. They were well known and socialised a great deal.

"I remember him," said Bodie, "A big well-built chap, loud and talkative, a bit too much so for some of the more reserved ones, but really only trying to be friendly."

"He's not suspicious either," agreed Doyle.

The third name on the list was a William Driscoll, a retired military man, Having inherited a large Victorian family house, with no family to fill it, he had had the place carefully converted into several small flats, reserving the top floor for his own use. He was a good landlord, choosing his tenants carefully, and meticulous about dealing with any problem quickly and efficiently, but he kept himself aloof and private. He spent a great deal of his time at an Officers Club, and regularly attended Regimental events. He no doubt had friends among his fellow officers, but did not socialise anywhere else. He had only recently taken an interest in Red Indian culture, and this was the first convention he had attended.

"Nothing suspicious, really," commented Doyle, "but he is an army man, so he most likely knows a bit about bombs."

During this time Doyle's shoulder had improved rapidly. He'd ditched the sling on the second day as his fingers regained their feeling. The bruise on his shoulder changed from purple through to dingy yellow and gradually faded away.

Cowley had read their meticulous reports and had decided that there was no more to be done at the moment, at least not by them. Both were now back on the active duty list, ready for work more suited to their abilities.

Some days later, Bodie overtook his mate half-way up the stairs, on his way to report in.

"Morning, Doyle," he said cheerfully, "Were you up Soho way last night ?," he enquired.

"No," replied his partner, "We went to the local picture house. Why are you asking ?," he added curiously.

"I hear there was a bomb explosion there," explained Bodie. "Some small gambling place, so I heard."

"It'll be in Cowley's police report, I expect," said Doyle. "Some gangland stuff, probably. Police business, not ours."

They were called to Cowley's office and made their way there quickly. But although Doyle spotted the familiar blue cover of the habitual daily police report lying on Cowley's desk, his boss made no mention of the incident.

Instead he gave them details about a break-in at a small warehouse that he had had some queries about, and sent them off to investigate. They found the police already dealing with it. They had detained a couple of youths acting oddly, and on visiting their 'squat' had discovered a stash of cigarettes easily identified as having been stolen from there.

Bodie and Doyle took the opportunity to have a careful look round the place. They found nothing, except a small back room with odd marks in its dusty floor. The deep scrapes suggested that something heavy had been stored there, and recently moved. They exchanged knowing looks.

"Looks like Cowley's tip-off, wherever it came from, was a bit late," suggested Bodie.

"He won't be best pleased," replied Doyle. "I think it was from one of Anson's 'snouts'."

"We'd better go back and tell him, and try to dodge the 'flack'," said Bodie.

They returned to base, and reported to Cowley. As they had thought, he wasn't exactly pleased, and they braced themselves for getting the brunt of his annoyance, even though they weren't to blame. But it didn't come.

Instead he picked up a paper from his desk. "I've just had an odd report from the bomb squad," he said, scowling at it.

"About the bomb at the hotel ?," queried Bodie.

"No," said Cowley, "It's about last night's bomb in Soho."

"Some gambling place, wasn't it ?," said Bodie. "Local rivalry, maybe ?."

"Maybe not," replied Cowley. "They say that the bomb was the same as the hotel one." He gave his listening agents a very straight look, and added, "Exactly the same."

He caught the look that came over Doyle's expressive face, as the implications of this sunk in.

"A man was killed," said Doyle, "Do we have a name, sir ?."

"Yes, a rather unusual one, foreign, I think," replied Cowley. "Limardis."

Doyle looked startled, and faintly puzzled. "I've seen that somewhere," he said, "and fairly recently."

He was thinking furiously, running a hand through his already tousled curls. Then it came to him, and he blurted out what he had recalled.

"He was one of the hotel guests, sir," he exclaimed, "Mario Limardis."

There was a moment's silence as the three took that in. Then Bodie voiced the thought that had come immediately to all of them.

"So he could have been the intended target at the hotel," he said, "before it went wrong."

"Yes," said Cowley, "and that puts a different light on things, doesn't it ?. You two had better go out again and search for a connection with any of our three suspects. Maybe they are not as innocent as they appeared."

The pair hurried out to get on with the task. As they climbed into the car, Bodie was grumbling a little. "You know, we were pretty thorough about 'vetting' those three," he began, "I didn't see anything about any of them frequenting casinos."

"None of them seemed the type," agreed Doyle, "But you do hear of people who go to great lengths to keep their gambling habit secret because they are ashamed, or who want to hide the money they are losing from friends or partners."

"True," admitted Bodie, "So we'll just have to be crafty and dig a bit deeper."

It took them the rest of the day and all through the next morning, but still they didn't uncover anything useful.

They were having a break, snatching a bite of lunch in a small café, and talking over what they found. Suddenly, Doyle put down his sandwich and sat up with a start.

"I've just had a thought," he said.

"I hope it's a good one," said his partner, "We could do with a break."

"Well, Cowley won't like it, "said Doyle.

Bodie gave his mate a puzzled look. What had he thought up now ?

Doyle took a deep breath, and expounded his idea.

"Cowley and the Minister made us assume that Fotheringham was likely the intended victim," he began, "But if he wasn't, and Limardis was the real target, that adds Fotheringham to the list of suspects, doesn't it ?."

Bodie was stunned. This was a very different 'kettle of fish'. But the more he considered the suggestion, the more real it became.

"You're right," he said at last, "Cowley and the Minister won't like it. We'll have to tread very carefully checking up on him."

Both sat quiet for a while, thinking the situation over. Then Doyle came up with a suggestion.

"Let's try this from a different angle," he said, "We'll borrow a camera with a long-distance lens, and take photographs of all four. Then we'll take those to the casino where Limardis was killed, and see if anyone there recognises one of them."

"We won't tell the boss that we are including Fotheringham till we see if that gives us anything," added Bodie.

They quickly put this plan into action. They borrowed a special camera, and took the shots they wanted, long distance ones so that the subjects would not suspect anything. Then they went personally to have them processed and quickly 'blown up'.

Cowley had agreed to them taking photographs, thinking it a good plan, and there was no reason why the processor, who had produced pictures from different angles, should have revealed to him that there were four subjects not three. So they hoped they would get away with it, at least for a while. They collected the pictures and left.

"How badly damaged was the casino, when Limardis was hit ?," queried Bodie. "Is it still operating ?"

"I don't know," replied Doyle, "We'll have to go there and see, won't we ?."

So they made their way into the seedier side of Soho, and found the place, which gloried in the fanciful name of 'Lucky Lucinda's'.

The frontage, though dingy and in need of a coat of paint, showed no sign of damage. A large notice was pinned to the door, saying in bold print

BUSINESS AS USUAL RE-OPENING TONIGHT.

They found a doorbell, rang it, and knocked loudly. After quite a while, they heard the sounds of bolts being drawn, and the door opened just a crack, to reveal a rather bleary-eyed man.

"Not open till 8," he said grumpily.

Bodie pushed the door open wider, driving the man backwards. "We need to speak to whoever's in charge," he said, as he and Doyle forced their way in.

"Well, that will be me," came a loud female voice. A woman appeared from a curtained doorway, and came towards them. She was tall, well-built, good-looking in a rather brassy way. But she seemed friendly enough. She introduced herself with an ingratiating smile.

"My name's Lucinda," she said, "I'm the manager, temporarily, till Mario's brother sorts things out."

She seemed quite impressed when the pair produced their I.D. cards, and very ready to talk.

"I expect you've come to find out who killed Mario," she said, chattily.

"I don't see much sign of damage," said Doyle.

"No," she said, and explained. "The bomb was in his office, which is upstairs at the back. It's a mess up there, but the casino rooms weren't affected, which is why we are able to open again."

Doyle produced his photographs and began showing them to her. "We'd like to know if you recognise any of these men ?," he said.

She looked carefully at each in turn, shaking her head at the first ones. But when he handed her the one of Fotheringham, she let out a sudden squeal of recognition.

"I do know him," she exclaimed, "That's poor Mr. Trent," she said.

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances. Doyle's hunch had struck gold.

"Why 'poor' Mr. Trent ?," he asked curiously.

"Well, he's been coming here every week for a couple of years now," she said, "But he never seems to have any luck. He does win occasionally but only small amounts. But he loses a lot more. In fact, I don't know why Mario lets him go on playing. He must owe him a great deal of money, into thousands, I think. The poor man is looking very stressed. I wish he would stop playing. But some men can't, can they ?. They believe their luck must change soon, but it doesn't."

The listening pair were learning a lot from this woman, obviously eager to chat.

"Do either of you like a little flutter ?," she said. "We have some very good games here."

"No, thank you," said Bodie quickly, and they left hurriedly.

"I think she fancied us," said Bodie, as they made their way back to the car, "but she's definitely not my type."

"Nor mine," added Doyle fervently.

As they drove away from the dingy streets, just beginning to come to life for the evening activities, he was thinking over what they had learned and its implications.

"We'll have to take this to Cowley," he said.

"Let's leave it till the morning," said Bodie. "It's getting late. Cowley will have gone home by now, and we should have been 'off-duty ages ago."

But when they arrived the next morning, and asked to speak to the boss, they met with a snag.

"Mr. Cowley won't be in till later this afternoon," said his secretary, "He has a long meeting this morning and then an important lunch date."

The pair retired to the rest room to decide what to do.

"Let's use this morning to see what we can find out about Fotheringham," said Doyle. "We never got round to checking him out in any detail. There's nothing in Records but we can look elsewhere."

And gradually they began to find out more about the man called Fotheringham. He was a widower, having lost his wife some 10 years ago. He lived in an old run-down Victorian house, with an elderly cousin who acted as his housekeeper.

He held a very responsible position in the civil service, and was respected, if not particularly liked, as he did not socialise with his colleagues at all.

"This is interesting," said Doyle, looking up from an article he had found. "He started out in the army, following family tradition. He was in the Royal Engineers, though only for a short while. "

"Oh," said Bodie. "He was a 'Sapper', was he ?. That's where he learned about bombs, then."

It was late afternoon before Cowley returned to his office. His secretary had informed Bodie and Doyle that he had been delayed, but she didn't know why. She told him that Bodie and Doyle were waiting to speak to him. He looked as if the information did not exactly please him.

"You'd better send them in," he said, with a sigh.

He was standing behind his desk when the pair knocked and entered. He had a sombre look on his face.

"Sir," began Doyle, eagerly, "We have some information…"

But he was stopped as Cowley held up an imperious hand."Bodie, Doyle," he began slowly. "I know you've been doing a lot of work in connection with what happened down in Dorset, but I have to tell you this case is now closed."

Doyle looked stunned and protested vehemently. "But, sir," he said, "We've found out a lot. Fotheringham …"

Once again he was stopped in mid-sentence. "Gerard Fotheringham shot himself last night," came Cowley's bald statement.

There was a moment's silence. Cowley watched the stunned faces before him intently as his news sank in. Then he continued.

"He left a very detailed confession. He had got himself so deeply in debt that he could bear it no longer. Limardis was starting to blackmail him, not for money, but for 'insider' information. He desperately wanted to avoid that. He thought that taking the bomb to the Dorset conference, so far from London, and with the added 'red herrings' of the unfriendly messages, would make any investigations long and difficult. When it went wrong, he just kept quiet, and let people speculate that he might have been the intended target."

"And then he tried again," said Bodie. "and succeeded this time."

"Yes," said Cowley, "and the Minister is using his influence to hush it all up. So there is no more for us to do."

He looked again at his two agents. Bodie looked disappointed, but he couldn't read Doyle's expression.

"I will read your reports with interest," he said, "but you will do nothing further. Go off-duty now, but report in the morning for details of your next assignment." The pair nodded and left, decidedly subdued.

As they left Cowley's office and made their way to the deserted rest room, Doyle was quiet and thoughtful.

"Was it our fault ?," he suddenly asked. "Did he find out we went to the casino ?."

Bodie swung round to face his friend, an exasperated look on his face.

"Raymond Doyle !," he exclaimed, "There are times when I could positively shake you, to try to get some sense into your head. The man was a killer ! He set out deliberately to kill Limardis, regardless of who else might get hurt. And the hotel bomb ! You were the nearest to that. Any closer and he might have killed you ! And you're sorry for him ?."

Doyle gazed in surprise at his wildly animated friend, and saw sense.

"You're right, of course," he admitted slowly.

Bodie calmed down, and smiled at him. "I don't know why you feel you have to blame yourself for everything," he said, "It's pretty stupid, isn't it ?."

Doyle nodded.

Bodie stepped up and put an affectionate arm round his mate's shoulder.

"Come on," he said cheerfully, "We've got some beers waiting somewhere for us. Let's go and find them."

Doyle responded at once, brightening up. "Right," he said, in a much lighter tone. "Your car or mine ?," he added as they moved companionably towards the stairs.


End file.
